Late September and the weather is on the turn, reminding the last remaining summer tourists the holiday season is finally over. Time to head home. With a threat of rain in the air people hurry along the streets, their collars turned up and heads bent low against the wind. The sea, the same colour as the sky, has no clearly defined horizon, merely a subtle merging of varying shades of grey. In the relative safety of the inner harbour fishing boats bob furiously, their rigging clanging in the strengthening wind. Beyond the outer harbour, huge waves smash against the rocks, sending plumes of spray rocketing skywards before plummeting to earth and cascading over the stonework of the pier. A group of reckless lads dare each other to face the force of the ocean, retreating at the last moment before edging their way, once again, to the end of the pier. Seagulls are buffeted sideways by gusts of wind and those that take to the wing are tossed about like puppets at the mercy of an inexperienced puppeteer.
Oliver stands at the edge of the slipway watching the drama unfold. This energy is what feeds his soul; his day-to-day existence is not enough. He glances at his wife standing beside him holding onto her waxed hat, her long dark hair flying madly. She was right to suggest they visit Cornwall at the end of the season. He feels invigorated and vitalised.
‘Happy?’ she asks, turning towards him, and he smiles. ‘Let’s find a café.’ Not waiting for a response, she turns and walks along the harbour road.
Despite the deteriorating weather, the town is busy with people going about their business but several stop and stare as the couple pass by. At the entrance to a courtyard Oliver’s wife halts. Swiftly she reads a display board listing the shops hidden within before leading her husband into its relative sanctuary.
*
It’s been a quiet afternoon in the gallery. Engrossed in a book, listening to her favourite Moody Blues CD, Carol is pleased there have been so few customers as the book is a page-turner and she’s almost at the end. Glancing out of the window, she sees a couple enter the empty courtyard and hopes they won’t come in. Quickly she returns to the unfolding story, but a flurry of excitement outside diverts her attention. A gaggle of people have also entered the courtyard and her friend, Sheila, waves at her from the entrance. Flushed and excited, more so than usual, she points to the couple. As Carol peers through the window to see what all the fuss is about, the bell above the door clangs. A slim, attractive, dark-haired woman enters and acknowledges Carol with a brief smile before turning to the man following.
‘Look, darling, what wonderful paintings.’ Her cut-glass accent fills the gallery. ‘Isn’t that the Minack?’ She points to a canvas perched on the easel just inside the door.
By now, yet more people have entered the courtyard. Torn between finishing the novel, dealing with a potential sale and her desire to find out what’s occurring outside, Carol places the book face down on the counter and turns her attention to the couple now studying the paintings displayed on the rear wall. The woman is in her late thirties or early forties. A strong, no-nonsense woman who knows exactly who she is, thinks Carol, before turning her attention to the man. Although he is facing away from her, she can sense his commanding presence. As the couple move slowly round the gallery, discussing the various paintings and examining the range of gifts on display, it’s an interesting lesson in body language. The woman, with her all-commanding inner strength, appears to be in control, whereas the man, although possessing a strength of his own, seems to follow in her wake; not weakly but as an extension to his companion.
I wonder how Ken and I are perceived, Carol idly speculates, but as the man turns in her direction her eyes open wide and she breathes in sharply. He smiles a resigned smile; one of reluctant acceptance at her reaction to him.
‘These paintings are superb,’ he comments in a deep, distinctive voice. ‘Do you know the artist?’
Carol can’t find her voice and thank God she’s sitting, as she seems to have lost the use of her legs. Summoning her fast-diminishing strength, she says in the smallest of voices, ‘Yes, my daughter.’
The man’s smile relaxes into one of sincerity, making his handsome face even more attractive.
‘She has a wonderful talent.’
Intelligent, clear blue eyes.
Carol blushes and nods. She is so very proud of her lovely Cara.
As the woman calls over, he turns away. Knowing it’s ridiculous at her age to be so affected in this way, Carol attempts to still her beating heart.
The noise in the courtyard has increased and she glances out of the window again. The enclosed space is full of people and Sheila, with her nose pressed flat against the glass, peers through the window.
That woman is so indiscreet, thinks Carol as she pulls a face at her dear old friend.
Lucky you, mouths Sheila.
With concerns about the heroine’s fate now cast aside, Carol’s attention focuses on the potential customers. They make a very attractive couple and appear to move as one, no doubt honed over years of being together. They dress similarly too. Both wear Barbour jackets and denim jeans; in the woman’s case, tucked into a pair of Dubarry boots. The man’s striped scarf gives him the appearance of a student, though he must be in his early forties, and there’s the merest hint of silver at his temples on an otherwise full head of dark hair. But something doesn’t quite fit and a small frown furrows Carol’s brow. The woman has a straightforward clarity but there’s something darker to the man, despite his dazzling smile. She’s considering what that darkness might be when he turns and looks directly at her. Quickly Carol turns away, mortified he’s caught her studying him.
‘We love the way your daughter has captured the Minack Theatre under a clear night sky,’ he says, and Carol knows he’s being kind and putting her at her ease.
‘Yes, it’s a very different take,’ she mutters, a range of emotions surging through her. With a deep breath she continues, ‘So many artists paint it looking down at the amphitheatre and out to sea, but Cara’s ‘eye’ visualises images in a very different way. This view, I think, has certainly caught the atmosphere of the place.’
‘Indeed,’ the man says. ‘How much is it?’
‘Seven hundred and fifty.’
He glances at his companion, an unspoken communication passing between them. ‘We’ll take it.’
‘And I’ll have these driftwood photo frames as well,’ adds the woman. ‘Samantha will love them.’
Concentrating hard on walking across the gallery, Carol lifts the canvas from the easel. She wraps it carefully, places it in a large, white bag on which ‘The Art Shack’ is printed in vibrant peacock blue and props it against the counter. Then, wrapping the driftwood frames in tissue paper, she places these in another bag.
‘If you’re still here next week you may be interested to know my daughter is having an exhibition in Truro starting on Monday,’ Carol says, amazed that she’s managed a complete sentence without stuttering. She slides the credit-card machine over the counter towards the man.
‘Unfortunately we’re leaving tomorrow,’ the woman says.
‘That’s a shame. Have you been staying locally?’
The woman surveys her coolly. Instantly, Carol feels she’s overstepped the mark, but why? She was only being friendly.
‘Not far,’ the woman replies in a noncommittal manner.
Carol hands the man his card and receipt.
‘Please tell your daughter we will treasure this painting,’ he says, bending to pick up the canvas. ‘It’s a wonderful memory of our visit.’
She promises to pass his message on.
He starts to walk away but turns back to her. ‘I notice your daughter signs her paintings ‘Cara P’. What is her name?’
‘Cara Penhaligon.’
‘A true Cornish name if ever there was one!’ He smiles at Carol with a twinkle in his eyes. As her legs threaten to give way, Carol sits.
His companion is already at the door. As she opens it, the clamour of voices in the courtyard momentarily dips as the couple step out into the late afternoon air. Immediately people surge around and Carol notices how the man signs every scrap of paper presented to him with a quiet dignity, while the woman stands by proprietorially. He catches Carol watching him again and she blushes, embarrassed. He smiles. She can see he’s trying hard to mask his resignation but the darkness she’d noticed earlier once more envelops him. Before Carol can contemplate this further, her friend charges through the door in a state of high excitement.
‘Carol, can you believe it?’ Sheila exclaims. ‘Oh my God! Can you believe it? Here in little old Porthleven!’
Holding a piece of paper aloft, Sheila shimmies her way to the counter. Drawing the paper to her lips, she plants a firm kiss on the autograph. Carol laughs. Sheila is always a whirlwind of fun and enthusiasm, but her energy has extended beyond the norm this afternoon.
‘No, Sheila, I wouldn’t have believed it had I not witnessed it for myself.’
‘Oh my God! Wait ’til Betty hears what she’s missed.’
‘She will be well fed up,’ Carol says, looking out of the window at the now empty courtyard.
Bubbling with excitement, Sheila pulls Carol off the stool and spins her round. Both women giggle like schoolgirls.
‘Grandma!’
Carol turns in the direction of the voice. Her grandson bounds across the shop towards her, dragging his school bag behind him, all cheeky smiles under a mop of blond hair. Momentarily her heart pinches at the image he represents of that other golden child she once knew.
‘Sky, watch where you’re going,’ Cara calls from the entrance. Her daughter, Bethany, stands behind her.
Flinging himself at Carol, the young boy hugs her tightly, and she drops a kiss on the top of her precious grandson’s head.
‘Looks like you’ve been busy, Mum,’ Cara says, glancing at the empty easel. ‘Where’s The Minack gone?’
But before Carol has a chance to respond, Sheila shrieks, ‘Oh my God, Cara! You will never guess who your mother just sold your painting to. I can’t believe it! Oh my God!’ Aware that the boy stares at her, open-mouthed, she quickly adds, ‘Pretend you didn’t hear that, Sky.’
Cara looks from Sheila to her mother in bewilderment. Both women appear flushed with a feverish look in their eyes.
‘Who?’ she asks.
In unison the older women gush, ‘Oliver Foxley!’